Damage Control
by Lala Kate
Summary: Two women meet on the metro and realize their lives are more similar than they should be. What happens when they decide to take fate into their own hands? Written for Dragon Queen week.


_My contribution to Dragon Queen week on tumblr. This is my take on "Partners in Crime."_

 _I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. :)_

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It began on the metro, one dreary Thursday in D.C., the rain continuing to soak those unfortunates still above ground all but all but forgotten in the depths as two travelers make their way home, two strangers who glance at each other in passing on a daily basis, two women living separate lives with more in common than they realize.

Lives collide in the strangest of places, circumstances running together, blending two distinctive colors into a new shade as fate makes its move, cleverly disguising itself as coincidence in the process. But chance is not at work here as a delay forces the train to stop, prompting the tall blonde to sit up straighter, to adjust her charcoal blazer with deep red nails and the petite brunette to look up from her cell phone, wine colored lips parting in confusion until they collide with steel blue eyes facing her head on.

"What the hell?" red lips utter, eyes narrowing as she takes in the few remaining passengers at the late hour.

"God only knows," black brows respond, a slight head tilt hinting at a comradery as of yet undefined. "It's always something, isn't it?"

The space is more confined somehow, the air stilled as they sit unmoving, the inactivity prompting the blonde to check her watch.

"Are you late for something," the brunette questions, more out of a need to pass time than to actually engage the other woman in conversation. Blue eyes narrow then flash, and the other woman sees something, something she'd rather not name and tries to push aside but recognizes all the same.

"My husband doesn't like it when I'm late," red lips respond, twitching once before sheer will and panache lock fair features into a practiced mask of deception. Dark eyes look back at her, swallowing audibly as her gaze falls back to her phone.

"Neither does mine," the brunette admits, her smile forced yet regal, her spine brittle and locked. They say nothing, meet blink for blink until the blonde nods towards the other woman's wrist, flicking her eyebrows just so.

"That's a lovely bracelet," red lips utter, catching dark eyes off-guard. "May I see it?"

Suspicion hovers, but courtesy overrules, and the brunette's arm is extended, her gold bracelet ignored as the other woman latches on to her arm just above her wrist, making dark eyes wince before they widen in shock. Red nails gently push up a sleeve revealing an ugly wreath of blotched purple and black, angrily highlighted in yellow, an imprinted tattoo the shape of a man's fingers no woman should be forced to wear.

The brunette pulls back, embarrassment warring with fury, the lines of her lips pressed thin, revealing a scar peeking out from its covering.

"He gave you that, too, didn't he," the blonde states, no hint of question in her voice as dark eyes fall to immaculate pumps. The taller woman leans forward then, touching her nail to a place just above her temple, a place well camouflaged by hair and foundation.

"That's where mine hit me."

Her words singe like fire between them, filling the immobile car with a smoke only they can smell and see. Eyes lock, connection is forged, a sisterhood born of the wrong kind of blood confirmed in secret as burgundy lips begin to tremble.

"It was his ring," the lips confess, dark lashes blinking as if to push away the memory. The blonde smiles a smile that stills the other woman's heart, one of prey pushed into a corner one time too many, one of a predator newly born.

"You're lucky," red lips hiss. "Mine used a golf club." Ice crusts over the brunette's spine, making her sit up all the straighter. They are truly sisters now.

The train moves, but their gazes do not, and they exit together, shoulder to shoulder, bruise to bone. They say nothing on the escalator, barely blink as they make their way into the deluge awaiting them on the surface, pausing before they leave each other, brown and blue making a pact.

"Drinks tomorrow?" the blonde questions, her black umbrella engulfing her in shade.

"Drinks tomorrow," the brunette echoes, glancing back as the other woman strides off into a realm she knows all too well. She breathes in before turning on her heels to face her own hurdles, silently concocting a story her husband will believe to explain just why she'll be late the next evening.

She tells him her book club is meeting. He seems to believe her.

Drinks lend themselves to conversation and a baring of souls in a manner neither of them have ever embraced with another woman. Words pass quietly over a table almost hidden, eyes darting from wall to wall as voices remain low.

"Why don't you leave him?"

It's the blonde who asks, and dark eyes gaze back at her before falling into her drink.

"My son," she answers, and the other woman nods. "I'd lose him—he'd take him from me."

"The courts are often more favorable towards the mother," red lips mutter. "Especially when abuse can be proven."

"Unless your husband is a federal judge," the brunette states, her fingertip swirling around the rim of a vodka tonic. "I've thought about leaving, about just taking my son and running to God knows where, but…"

"You think he'd find you," the other woman concludes, leaning forward a mere breath. Dark hair nods, slowly, defeated, hanging in shame at the situation of her life.

"Then I'd lose him forever. I can't live without my son." It is a statement neither can refute. "What about you?"

The questions is almost inaudible, but the blond hears it, red lips smirking bitterly just before she drains her glass.

"He'd kill me," she responds, no trace of humor in her tone. "He killed his first wife when she tried to leave him—he even told me how he did it, how he got away with it with it, how he fooled the authorities. Of course there's no proof—just my word against his." The brunette coughs, clearing her throat uncomfortably as she shifts in her seat. "What—you don't believe me?"

Silence stares back without blinking, without breath.

"I do believe you," dark brows quietly affirm. "That's what bothers me."

Red lips press into a sharp smile.

"Me, too," she whispers. "And more so every day."

They meet for drinks again the following week.

It becomes a routine for them, a mantra, an odd brand of therapy to which each of them clasp, lifelines of normalcy in worlds where normalcy hurts and subjugates. An hour of freedom, an hour of truth in lives played out strategically and costumed in deception in which words are measured and breaths are held. They never go to the same place twice, afraid of being noticed, and they do not exchange numbers, knowing their phones may be examined, not wanting anything to take from them this sisterhood that they need.

Until one day when one of them is not there.

The blonde waits for half an hour, standing in the bowels of the metro, hoping the shorter woman will appear with each train that passes. She finally exits in defeat, sipping her drink in solitude at a corner table, pressing down the aftertaste of fear as best she can. Too many things are possible, but only one outcome makes sense. _She'll be here tomorrow_ , she tells herself, wishing her lies were more convincing and less transparent than they feel.

But they aren't. And she isn't.

It is two days later the brunette returns, her collar too high for the day's temperature, her make-up a shade too dark, her stance visibly shorter, her shoulders stiff yet fragile. Eyes lock in the train for a moment—blue ones concerned and angry, dark ones masked and choked. A fair brow raises, a black on nods, and they make their way to a nearby bar on legs well-trained to carry broken bodies.

"I have to get out," wine lips confess, trembling in terror still fresh enough to smell.

"It's a risk," the blonde counters, watching the other woman without blinking, feeling something akin to fire stir in her chest.

"Not as much a risk as staying."

The words lie unchallenged between them. The air then shifts.

"He needs to die."

Dark eyes think they cannot have heard correctly, and they narrow, they probe, but they meet nothing but calm conviction gazing back at them from across the table.

"I can't," burgundy lips whisper, numb to the words that tumble out.

"No, you can't," the blonde counters. "It's too risky—the spouse is always the first to be suspected." Shoulders fall an inch, maybe two, dark hair brushing them in their descent. "But I can."

The brunette sits up taller, her mouth frozen agape. Nothing is voiced. Nothing is denied. A myriad of images plays out wordlessly between them, a silent film taking center stage in an unfathomable conversation.

"Write down his schedule," red lips continue in a gentle nudge. "Every detail. Every day. I have no connections to him, none to you, as far as anyone else knows. I'll never be suspected, we'll make certain you have an unbreakable alibi, and you and your son will be free."

 _Free_. She and her son will be _free_.

The brunette tries to breathe, tries to think, tries to silence the roaring in her ears as she forces her mouth closed.

"If you get caught," she utters, feeling her argument clatter to the floor as blue eyes focus in too closely.

"I won't," the blonde states. "And neither will you."

Dark brows draw closer, piecing together what is implied as bourbon slides down her throat.

"Why would you do this?" she finally questions. "Why take such a risk?"

Slender shoulders shrug as a twenty is placed on the table to cover their bill.

"Because we deserve to live," red lips reply, making dark eyes widen abruptly. "You can return the favor, after everything dies down."

One smiles, one shudders, and red nails reach out then, fingers wrapping gently around the other woman's hand, haltingly instigating human touch for the first time her mind and body can recall. Her skin wants to burn at the contact, but the touch is soothing, cool, not red and angry, not cruel and cold, and she feels as if she's shedding reptilian skin, layers of scaly protection sluffing off, revealing pure life underneath.

"Sleep on it," the blonde suggests, afraid to squeeze in case there are bruises hidden beneath the shirt. "You can tell me tomorrow."

She then stands and floats out of the bar, black pumps clicking against the wood floor, leaving both payment and the means for a confused and desperate woman to break out of hell. The brunette clasps the possibility to her chest like a fleece blanket in a snowstorm, cherishing the warmth even as the shift in temperature leaves her trembling.

Dark eyes cannot sleep, a troubled mind cannot rest, and she pushes herself from her bed and tiptoes to her son's bedroom, watching the boy sleep the sleep of the innocent. He'll eventually get hurt, she knows this, a hapless victim caught in a line of fire whose flame continues to grow and destroy. If she doesn't act soon, they will both be engulfed and consumed until there is nothing left. She tastes ash in the back of her throat even as she tries to harden her heart.

What choice does she have? Has she ever actually made a choice for herself in her life except for that of becoming a mother? She will choose this, the path to freedom, even if it means she must sell her soul in the process.

The next day, eyes meet on the train, locked and unblinking until dark brows nod. Red lips smile then—stretching gloriously into the first genuine smile they've felt in what feels like a lifetime. A deal is made. A pact is sealed.

There is no going back now.

Schedules are passed from hand to hand as they exit the train, careful not to make eye contact as they go their separate ways, one wearing a fierce look of determination, the other a smirk of impending justice. Life is about to change irrevocably for both of them.

Two weeks later, the brunette receives the call as she is sitting in a PTO meeting with a dozen other adults. She's amazed at how calm her voice remains as news of her husband's death slides into her ears. A freak shooting while he was jogging in the park. No witnesses. No leads.

He was a judge, so he must certainly have made enemies the authorities inform her, and they promise to follow them all, to examine every lead and track down the killer, but their assurances are to no avail. There is no evidence, a fact for which she is profoundly thankful. She endures the press and the questions, accepts multiple condolences and snuggles her son into her chest each night in an attempt to help him get over the loss of his father.

"I'm glad he's dead," the boy whispers one night, taking her off-guard as she gazes back at him in shock. "I wanted to kill him for hurting you like he did."

She tenses and tears up, pulling him into her body as she strokes his dark hair. She had not expected this.

"You must never say that to anyone," she instructs, feeling him nod into her skin. "People wouldn't understand."

"I just wanted you to know," he confesses, his words glowing in the dark as if they're electric. "Does that make me a terrible person?"

The shock stings her ribs where she thinks her heart still dwells.

"No," she assures him, pulling him tighter into her body, ashamed he's seen as much as he has in his short life. "It makes me love you even more."

She then knows it is time to repay a debt.

She's amazed at how easy it is to move into the bar unnoticed, how simple it is to slip something into his drink when he's distracted by a buxom ginger a few seats over, how casually she exits and walks away, even as her hands tremble and her heart beats repeatedly against her ribs. No one looks at her differently as she boards the metro and stares at her phone. No one follows her, comes to her door, even mentions the murder in passing, and she finds she cannot sleep that night, wondering if her plan has worked or if she has failed her friend.

It's a week before she sees her, and her blonde hair is unbound and free, her shoulders less rigid, her smile almost warm. She looks younger, years younger, the shorter woman observes, wearing a radiance that should cloak a bride rather than a widow. It's too risky to be seen together, so a note is passed from red nails to burgundy. A name. A phone number. A thank you. And a dampness to her smile as they exit the metro that presses into a newly-liberated heart, unleashing it to live again.

And live they do.

Time passes for both of them—days, weeks, months, and one day the brunette decides to go somewhere else, to start over with her son, to fill her lungs with new air and her vision with new sights. An old photograph is unearthed, one she's held on to since childhood when she still allowed herself to dream. It is taped to her refrigerator without a word until her son finally asks.

It is decided then.

Their destination is a castle in Scotland—the dream that had faded into remnants, an adventure she's continually put off for another day. The history and vistas capture her attention, but it is the widower raising his own boy who throws an unexpected detour into her life, a man doing his best to run his family estate, a man whose touch makes her giddy and whose kiss moves in deep. Their vacation turns into an extended holiday, a holiday into a proposal, and her life is forever altered in a way that still leaves her breathless.

She confesses to him one night before they marry, and he listens with no judgment, his forehead pressing into hers as her fingers grow cold.

"You don't hate me?" she questions, the residue of words she's never spoken still stinging her tongue.

"I tried to kill my father," he admits, stroking dark hair kissed by moonlight. "He hit my mother one too many times, nearly killed her one night, and I…"

He pauses, lifting her wrist to his lips, kissing skin once bruised, healing a heart once in shatters.

"He ended up killing himself, the drunken fool, and saved me the trouble," he breathes, pulling her in closer, accepting every piece of her life. "So, no. I don't blame you—either of you. I'm glad you got out alive."

A damn breaks inside of her. She is well and truly free.

She wonders about her friend from time to time, knowing she too left Washington in search of a new life to be lived. But their paths do not cross again for two more years.

It happens in Paris—in a park on a sunny afternoon, two women noticing each other in broad daylight from opposite sides of a grassy expanse. One smiles, then the other, their hearts drawing their bodies together in a manner as natural as breathing.

"You look wonderful," the brunette states, taking in a shorter blonde haircut and an unguarded red smile.

"So do you," the blonde returns, moving forward to touch the shorter woman's shoulder. "Motherhood becomes you."

The infant strapped to her body continues to sleep soundly, nestled into her mother as her brothers scamper about.

"She looks like you," red lips utter, making dark eyes smile in earnest. "My daughter is just over there."

The brunette turns in surprise, her gaze travelling back to her comrade as her mouth hangs open.

"You never told me," wine-tinged lips whisper, making the blonde's smile all the broader.

"I couldn't," the taller woman admits. "No one knew about her. I gave her up when I was seventeen. If my husband had ever found out, he would have…"

She stops, and their eyes meet one last time.

"But I don't have to worry about that anymore. I was able to locate her and be a part of her life now, thanks to you."

A breeze passes between them, one smelling of spring and hope, and it lifts their hair simultaneously, chilling their skin, warming their hearts. An ebony-haired baby stirs against her mother, and the blonde caresses the child's head, her touch tender and sincere.

"Be happy," she charges as blue locks on to brown.

"I will," the brunette promises. "I am."

"Good," the blonde states. "So am I."

They do not move for several seconds, not until a curly-haired boy cries out for his mother, then they back up slowly, one step at a time, parting ways yet again at a vastly different crossroads in their lives. It is the brunette who turns first, moving towards her family with a final wave and glance, one the blond captures and holds to her heart as her own daughter moves to her side.

"Who's that?" the younger woman questions, her dark hair flapping haphazardly in the breeze as the family of five walks away.

Red lips smile freely as she stares straight ahead, her hand reaching out for her daughter's in a touch that feels like forever.

"An old friend," she finally states, leaning into her past and future as her own child leads her home.


End file.
